The heroes marched to Cattraeth with the dawn;
Feelingly did their relatives {96d} regret their absence;
Mead they drank, yellow, sweet, ensnaring;
That year is the point to which many {96e} a minstrel turns;
Redder were their swords than their plumes, {97a}
Their blades were white as lime, {97b} and into four parts were their
helmets cloven, {97c}
Even those of {97d} the retinue of Mynyddawg the Courteous.